Sans Serpens
by Miss Chikara
Summary: One thousand miles away, Harry Potter awoke in a cold sweat at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, visibly shaken, but not as bad as the poor soul who had lived through two consecutive Cruciatus curses from the most powerful dark lord in a century.
1. Prologue Out of Sight, Out of Mind

**Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his friends belong to J. K. Rowling and all of her associated companies (i.e. Warner Bros.). No money is being made from this story (although I wish it was) and no copyright infringement is intended. This story plot (or pieces within it) might have been used already in other fanfictions, and again no infringement was intended, because it's probably just a coincidence anyway.**

**Author's Note: This is my first fanfic, so please don't be too harsh with the reviews. Constructive criticism is also helpful. This takes place in late summer, before Harry's sixth year at Hogwarts. Enjoy!**

**Sans Serpens**

**Prologue - Out of Sight, Out of Mind**

Voldemort's fury was becoming less and less contained with each piece of bad news he received from his "loyal" followers. About halfway through their monthly reports he decided to start casting multiple Unforgivables on every successive Death Eater that disappointed him with their information. Another Inner Circle member stepped forward preparing to report and bowed dutifully before the Dark Lord. After preliminary security spells were cast to keep their conversation private, Voldemort signaled for the cloaked figure before him to begin.

"Arise, Lucius, " the Dark Lord ordered wearily. _Ever the puppet_, thought Voldemort, as the elder Malfoy stood; _I just can't wait to finally trim the "strings" to which he so desperately clings._

"Yes, my lord," responded Malfoy, hesitant to say anything else until he was addressed to do so, lest he suffer the wrath of a very obviously infuriated Dark Lord for being disrespectful. Too many nights he had made that mistake, and learned the hard way to never intentionally upset his leader.

"How many of my faithfuls have rejoined my service from Azkaban? Specifically, how many _sane _ones?" He casually asked, already anticipating that he would not like the answer. The recent breakout, although it brought Lucius and the Dementors to his side, was not as beneficial to the cause as Voldemort hoped. Many impulsive Death Eaters decided to make the event a public spectacle by dueling the attending Aurors and officers of Magical Law Enforcement that were serving as security, losing their lives in the process. An inside source alerted the Dark Lord that at least half of his followers that escaped from their cells were either killed, or injured and subsequently captured by a second team of Aurors that arrived shortly after the alarms sounded. Fudge was unusually quiet on the subject, and refused to allow the Daily Prophet to question him when they showed up at the half-empty prison hours later. Of the others that survived and successfully returned to his service, he suspected that quite a few would have already become insane after decades of solitude and deprivation at the prison.

"A fair few answered your summons this evening, but after some interrogations I've concluded that only... only twenty are competent enough to be trusted."

"Unacceptable!" Voldemort raged. He cast the Imperius mercilessly and mentally "directed" the man to use his wand to cast the Severing Charm. On himself.

"Sectumsempra!" The man growled through gritted teeth. The man could no better resist the Imperius than an overweight person could resist chocolate chip cookies. When the curse was ended by the Dark Lord, the broken man lay on the floor, panting from the effort of trying to throw off the curse, blood flowing in rivulets from his left hand where the carved initials "L. V." could be found.

"You are of no further use to me tonight. Clean yourself up, and commence with the raids as planned. Do _not_ disappoint me again, or you will suffer far worse than you have ever done in my presence." He paid no more attention to Malfoy as he slowly crawled towards the adjacent room, the only space for miles where it was safe to Apparate.

Voldemort dispelled the security charms surrounding his throne and the wide platform on which it stood, and stared out of his narrowed eyes into the fearful, timid faces of the remaining members of the Inner Circle. All those left in the room were meeting his gaze, save for one witch. She had isolated herself from the rest of the group and secluded herself in the shadowed corner, her violet eyes staring intensely at the neighboring wall, periodically illuminated by the dim firelight of the torch secured above her head.

"Tiaret, step forward," he impatiently commanded the lone witch. She gracefully approached the platform, still artfully avoiding eye contact, gave the customary bow and rose again without first waiting for permission. That was her first mistake of the night.

"Crucio," he reprimanded, causing the young witch to silently spasm and convulse in agony on the stone floor, refusing to let her screams to betray the pain she was in. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her screams. The curse was so strong that she could feel her scars burst open and bleed afresh. After what she would describe as an eternity had passed, the curse was removed and she once again heard the Dark Lord's disembodied voice mere feet above her body.

"Maybe next time, Mudblood, you will deign to keep proprieties in mind, and bow correctly before your Master!" He hissed imperiously at Tiaret, causing her to shakily mutter an apology before she regained her composure and stood again, as graceful as she could considering that she had just endured the Cruciatus, and lowered her head respectfully to await further instruction.

"Forgive me, my Lord, for my momentary weakness," she added meekly. She knew why she was summoned and was glad that she was fortunate enough this time to be able to deliver some pleasing news to her Master, even if she didn't have much to report.

"Did you retrieve the object I asked for?" He inquired, with more than just a hint of curiosity in his tone. He tried to mask the emotion, but he had been waiting for this particular artifact for years, and now that Tiaret was on his side, he was much closer to acquiring it than ever before. Needless to say, he was riddled with suspense that he may finally own the one weapon that could bring down the Boy-Who-Lived. Even Dumbledore and his "Magus" that he was mentoring could no longer stand as an obstacle in his plan to rid the world of its impurities once he could secure it.

"I have acquired it, though at great personal cost," she replied evenly. She had nearly been killed, twice, in the procuring of the object and was determined not to leave his presence empty-handed. Hopefully this mission would earn her more respect in the red, slitted eyes of the Serpent King.

"You will be sufficiently compensated, if it has not been damaged somehow on the journey. Bring it forward, and take care to keep it well covered." The anticipation was tense; he had not but once glimpsed it, but it had been so long since that he had forgotten what it looked like. He sadistically smirked to hide his inner smile. Lord Voldemort does not smile. In public.

She slowly ambled forth, a limp evident in her walk, and knelt before the Dark Lord. With care, she removed the package from a concealed pocket in her robes. It was delicately wrapped in a fine crimson silk cloth, and glowed slightly from underneath its covering. It held a perfect spherical shape and was no bigger than a grapefruit in size. Who knew that something so small could be the undoing of a well organized, self-sufficient Wizarding society comprised of thousands of people? No one but the Dark Lord held _that_ knowledge. A tremble was apparent in her arm; a side effect of the Cruciatus being that normal motor function becomes impaired for up to three days after the curse is cast. She raised the bundle to her Master's expectant hands, recoiling briefly when his icy fingers brushed across her own. She retreated back to her previous position on the platform and watched for a reaction, though with Voldemort, it was guaranteed to be a subtle one if she noticed it at all.

"I am greatly pleased with your efforts. But on to other pressing matters. How is the training proceeding with the new recruits?" He asked conversationally. He had recently implemented a new program, with Tiaret as its leader, to teach new initiates the basic techniques of combat, using both Dark Magic and Muggle weapons to defeat an opponent. It had progressed for a month already with no problems, and the initiates were becoming quite proficient in both methods.

"They are learning well, though sometimes their behavior can be quite troublesome. It's difficult to teach when they refuse to respect what little authority I hold over them, my Lord. They... they attack like cowards, whenever I turn my back or fall to the ground, and I won't deal with it any longer," she spoke boldly, keeping her eyes downcast, away from the penetrating (and Legilimizing) gaze of the Dark Lord.

"You have my explicit permission to do whatever becomes necessary to keep them under your control. I should also have a talk with them personally to insure that it will never happen again." He smirked, the same smirk one would see on your local psychopath preparing to strike.

"You are dismissed, but first I wish to express my extreme disappointment in your inability to manage a group of sixteen-year-olds. What word can I use to convey it?" He mock-questioned, the look on his face clearly reflecting the "calm before the storm."

"Ah, I know _just_ the word for it: CRUCIO!" He cursed, and his maniacal laugh echoed off of the circular stone walls, as the woman crumpled below him gasped for air between screams.

One thousand miles away, Harry Potter awoke in a cold sweat at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, visibly shaken, but not as bad as the poor soul who had lived through two consecutive Cruciatus curses from the most powerful dark lord in a century.

**A/N: Please read & review... I will try to update within a reasonable amount of time, at least to keep my beta happy ;)...**


	2. Startling Discoveries

**Recently on Sans Serpens:**

_"You are dismissed, but first I wish to express my extreme disappointment in your inability to manage a group of sixteen-year olds. What word can I use to convey it?" He mock-questioned her; the look on his face was clearly the "calm before the storm". _

_"Ah, I know just the word for it: CRUCIO!" He cursed, and then his maniacal laugh echoed off of the circular stone walls, as the woman crumpled below him gasped for air between screams._

_One thousand miles away, Harry Potter awoke in a cold sweat at Number 12, Grimmauld Place, visibly shaken, though not as bad as the poor soul who had endured two consecutive Cruciatus curses from the most powerful dark lord in a century._

**Sans Serpens**

**Chapter One – Startling Discoveries**

**o**

Harry instantly sat upright and tried to recall what, or more importantly, who, he saw in his vision. Using his newly acquired healing abilities, he rid himself of the pain that came along with a direct link to Voldemort, with only a minute amount of difficulty. He silently praised Hermione for gifting him with _A Healer's Helpmate_ for his sixteenth birthday. And then he began to focus on the dream he had just awoken from.

The more he attempted to grasp the details the more they trickled out of his consciousness, like trying to cup water with your bare hands, only to find that it had somehow leaked through the cracks. Without a shadow of a doubt, he remembered the elder Malfoy being present in the beginning of his dream, followed by an unknown yet seemingly familiar witch, whose name had presently escaped Harry's memory. A break out from Azkaban had happened that clearly didn't please Voldemort, based on the fact that he punished Malfoy so severely for not preventing losses to their side. There was also talk of a mysterious orb.

Unfortunately, Harry couldn't place the significance of the object, although he thought he detected a very strange emotion in Voldemort as he received it, one that could only be described as happiness. _I'd better ask Hermione to research it for me, before it can be used against us._ Harry lifted himself from his four-poster bed to scribble a reminder down so he wouldn't forget to owl her when Hedwig returned from hunting. Whatever could elicit such a foreign feeling in the Serpent King was definitely not good for the Wizarding World, much less for Harry. Something was terribly wrong here, and Harry was going to get to the bottom of it, no matter how long it took. _Let's just hope, for the sake of everyone, that I can figure it out before it's too late. _He sat and contemplated, as he gazed out into the starless night sky, just how he would explain this to Hermione and Ron.

* * *

Entering from the backyard, she slowly followed the garden path to the small cottage she was currently living in, and silently opened the back door with a key she found beneath the welcome mat. She locked the door behind her manually, having no energy left for magic, and collapsed onto the nearest couch to rest her aching feet. Closing her eyes against the pain, Tiaret knew that she didn't have time to waste resting, so she rose from her seat moments later and started packing. The cottage's actual residents would be home soon, and she knew better than to be there when they showed up.

Tiaret sent off her owl to Dumbledore accepting his assignment, and glanced around to be sure she didn't leave anything unpacked. She grabbed her trunk, and vacated the tiny cottage. Looking back, she was glad that she would finally have one place to call "home", instead of having to relocate every few weeks. She raised her wand arm to signal the Knight Bus, and heaved her trunk on board. Hogwarts always felt like a second home to her, and after almost a decade she would be able to return to the castle. But she had to handle one last piece of business first.

* * *

He needed to speak with Dumbledore and his friends, even if the security measures imposed on him at Grimmauld Place were specifically designed to lessen their contact with one another. Harry knew that the floo system in the kitchen was restricted for use only between the hours of ten and midnight, so he headed downstairs with his letters for Ron and Hermione, beckoning Hedwig to follow him. He grabbed the jar of floo powder from the mantelpiece and contemplated what he should tell Dumbledore about his vision. Opening the nearest window, he sent his owl off with his letter to Hermione. Harry was not aware of her exact location because she tended to go on lengthy vacations with her parents over the summer break. _She hasn't written a single letter to me this summer; I wonder what's preventing her from keeping in touch._ Harry thought to himself. Tossing a pinch of powder into the flame, he intoned "the Burrow" and flung Ron's letter through the fire. A few seconds later, the blaze receded once again to embers, and Harry added another handful of the granulated dust.

"Albus Dumbledore's office, Hogwarts Castle," he clearly stated. After a moment's pause, the Headmaster's ashen face appeared before the hearth. The ever-present twinkle usually found in Dumbledore's eyes was absent, instead replaced by a worn and aged look that Harry had never before seen in his Headmaster. He looked a mixture of worried, saddened, and in shock. His typical calm demeanor had faltered, and for once his true emotions shone through.

"Are you all right, Professor Dumbledore?" Harry asked before Dumbledore could fully compose himself.

"Fine, just fine, Harry. Is there anything in particular you wished to talk about?" Dumbledore inquired hurriedly. He tried to rebuild a mask of calm and certainty before Harry could take into account his current distressed state.

"I had another dream, Professor. There was a breakout from Azkaban and-" Harry was interrupted by the impatient voice of the Headmaster.

"I know, Harry, that's what the Order is handling at this very moment. Some of the escaped wizards have set fire to several Wizarding families' homes in the area. I'm awaiting a floo from Kingsley with a report of the damages." Dumbledore responded in hushed tones, absentmindedly twirling the end of his beard around his long finger.

"What damages, sir? Has anyone been harmed?" There was a moment's pause before either of them spoke again.

"I really can't go into much detail at present, but we will talk later when the timing's right. I'm sending an Order member over to help you pack, and I expect you to be ready to return to Hogwarts in two hours' time when I come to collect you. Do _not_ leave the house, it could endanger us all." And with that, Dumbledore's head receded from the flames. Minutes later, it was replaced by a stout witch that stood on the hearth, brushing soot off of her robes as she rose to her full height.

"Wotcher, Harry."

* * *

"Miss? Excuse me, miss? I'm afraid this is as close as we can take you to Hogwarts at the present time," the Knight Bus attendant informed Hermione, who was still lost in thought and gazing blankly out the window. Broken from her reverie, she turned to face him with a bewildered look in her eyes.

"Where are we?" Hermione questioned him while squinting out the window at the dark street below them. _Why am I on the Knight Bus? The last I remember, I was in my room and-_

"As I said, this is the nearest location to Hogwarts: we are currently at Hogsmeade Station; this is your stop," he answered her impatiently. Clearly, he was anticipating the end of his shift, at which time he would be replaced by Stan Shunpike, the "official" night attendant. Feeling slightly irritated by his tone, she rose and grabbed the handle of her trunk, preparing to leave. As soon as she descended the last step, the bus had vanished with a resounding crack.

Looking around, she could see the vague silhouette of what was unmistakably the Shrieking Shack to her far left, and the town of Hogsmeade off to her right. Reluctantly ignoring the intoxicating smell of Butterbeer, she turned left and briskly headed toward the dilapidated dwelling that one of her former professors had once called 'home', for at least one night each month in the duration of his stay at Hogwarts.

It was sometime later when she finally reached it, and as she approached she noticed that it had changed from what she remembered of her last visit there. It was no longer as foreboding; it was still eerily quiet, but the windows were no longer boarded up. The absence of the house's usual creaking sounds unnerved her and forced her to reconsider her decision to use the passage that lay beneath it to get to Hogwarts. _Well, there's no point in turning back now, when I'm already halfway there_, she thought logically to herself. Advancing on the house, she thought back to the first time she entered it. She remembered how worried she had felt about Ron being left alone with that large, black dog, and just how afraid she was that they would all be killed by an escaped convict, or be expelled for attacking Snape. The memories resurrected by revisiting the Shack were by no means pleasant, but they were a part of her that could never be altered or erased.

Once she reached the passage she climbed in, dragging her trunk in after her. Aside from the occasional cobweb, nothing blocked the passage, and soon it began to slant upwards toward the Whomping Willow entrance. "Impedimenta!" she cast on the tree limbs to pass safely onto the Grounds. When she had properly distanced herself from the Whomping Willow, she seated herself on her trunk to try to understand why she had been heading to Hogwarts in the first place.

"Think, Hermione," she whispered to herself. "What are the facts, where is the truth here?" she asked aloud. Thinking back, she could recall some events leading up to her current situation; sitting alone on her trunk on the grounds of Hogwarts. _Mother and Father started arguing at the dinner table, so I got up to leave; it was an argument I had heard far too many times before since I returned home for summer break. Mother thinks he's been "seeing someone else" during the times he claims he's working late. I can't stand to hear them fight, so I excused myself to my room, Father protested, but I ignored him and continued up the stairs. Locking the door behind me, I turned on my stereo to drown out their raised voices and retrieved a book from my shelf for a bit of reading before bed. Sometime later the voices quieted, and I heard the front door slam shut. About an hour later, Father returned; I heard his drunken footsteps make their way up the staircase, with some difficulty. I had long since lost interest in the book I was reading. It was a Christmas gift from Ginny, a novel, _**Spare the Wand, Spoil the Witch**_. I found it interesting, to a point, to see a witch's perspective on romance. It's amazing to think how similar it is to muggle _Harlequin_ romance novels. Anyway, I put the book away and went to the bathroom to get dressed for bed, when I heard the most familiar clicking sound. It sounded as if, somehow, someone had unlocked my door, which was unusual because I'm the only one with a key to it. I left the bathroom to investigate, and-_

Hermione was at a loss. She could not recall what had happened next, up to her arrival at Hogsmeade Station about an hour ago. _What happened,_ she thought, _why can't I remember anything else? I clearly didn't return to the bathroom, since I still have my day clothes on, so where _did_ I go? I may as well talk to the Headmaster since I'm here; maybe he'll have some solution to this, _she thought idly to herself. She hoisted her trunk up again by the handle and headed quickly towards the oak double doors that separated her from her "home away from home", Hogwarts.

As she entered with her trunk in tow, she was once again captivated by her magical surroundings, as she had been every year she returned to the castle for the fall term. Temporarily distracted, she failed to notice that the very man she was looking for had advanced behind her, and was currently watching her observation of Hogwarts with interest.

"Never loses its enchantment, does it?" Dumbledore mused. She started and turned to face him, momentarily forgetting why she needed to see him in the first place.

"There's something very important I need to discuss with you, Professor," she began.

"Please, call me Albus; the term has not begun yet, and therefore, you are not my student. Well, in any case, it's probably best that we take this conversation to my office, so as not to be overheard. Come, follow me." They walked the path to his office in silence, only interrupted once when McGonagall made an appearance, and joined them in their walk.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Hermione?" Dumbledore asked as he seated himself behind his desk, gesturing that Hermione should sit in the chair opposite. McGonagall stood near the window, staring outward, though one would wonder why, since it was too dark to see out of it. The Headmaster eyed Hermione amiably from his seat, obviously waiting for an answer to his question.

"I'm not quite sure myself, actually. I was at home, and the next I remember I was heading to Hogwarts. I was hoping you could help me find out what happened in between, and why I can't remember it," she started, watching the twinkling glow of Dumbledore's eyes begin to fade as he sat, lost in thought. "Is there anything that you can do to help?" she eagerly questioned. The heat of the room from the hearth of the fireplace was beginning to affect Hermione, so she unzipped her jacket slightly, which, unfortunately for her, caused a chain reaction that would spoil her evening.

"Merlin, what happened to you, Miss Granger!" McGonagall exclaimed. It was then when she looked down and saw it: an angry red gash that extended to cover her entire upper torso. It was amazing that she hadn't noticed it before; though it had been healed, she didn't recall what caused it, so it must have been magically sealed up. She stared at it in confusion for a moment before the Headmaster interrupted her.

"We're going to the infirmary; perhaps, after healing this completely, Poppy can help us provide a remedy to your memory lapses," Dumbledore said while rising from his chair. The three left they office, each suffering from a different degree of confusion about that night's events. Dumbledore was less effected, however, considering that he had been forewarned of Hermione's arrival by an old friend earlier that very evening.

* * *

As he led the procession towards the infirmary, Dumbledore reflected back to the unexpected owl he'd received that day.

He had been sitting in his office, sucking on a lemon drop, contemplating what needed to be done to help displaced children and other members of the families attacked that day by the escaped Death Eaters. Then the answer came to him. Or, rather, it pecked on the window and waited politely to be let inside his office. _Curious, this, _he thought idly as he gave the owl entrance, _I wasn't expecting any post. _He unfurled the scroll, and read the tidy script.

_Headmaster,_

_I'm accepting your offer; I hope in delaying my response I haven't forced you to choose someone else for the position. I should arrive tomorrow by the Teacher's Express. Perhaps I'll be on time for dinner, so look for me at the main gates._

_Also, I'm sending some children your way. Please allow them entrance; they may need healing up a bit before they can rest. Especially the student I've recently spoken to you about, who shall remain nameless in the event that this is intercepted. Please understand that I had my own reasons for what I did, and I don't regret it... Everything in action now is for the greater good._

_I expect I'll see you soon,_

_NT_

Looks of confusion and surprise briefly crossed Dumbledore's face, proving that he was not nearly as all-knowing as he was rumored to be.

* * *

**End Chapter One**

**A/N: Trust me, I won't leave Hermione hanging inches from her memories for long, though the suspense is captivating, she'll soon get some answers, I promise. I hope to also update my other HP fic in tandem with this one. (Thanks to IrisPotter on fictionalley [dot org, for the credit to the title.) **


	3. In Search of Memory

**Sans Serpens**

**  
Chapter Two – In Search of Memory**

Cold, harsh. Blindingly white. Just as Hermione remembered it from earlier that summer, following the adventure to the Department of Mysteries. Madame Pomfrey rushed in from her side office, briefly determined with a glance which of the three was to be her patient that evening, and gestured wordlessly that the young witch take a seat on the nearest bed.

"Now, dearie," she addressed Hermione, "what seems to be the problem?" Her eyes perceptibly widened when Hermione unzipped her jacket and exposed the injury. Pomfrey pulled the curtain with a frown, and the Professors stepped aside to avoid being trapped within it. Hermione removed her shirt slowly, recognizing soreness in her body for the first time, as if she had ran a marathon. An angular, y-shaped laceration extended from just above her navel to fork at her sternum, leaving twin lines reaching for each collarbone.

"Magically healed, it would seem, and in a hurry, too," Pomfrey commented. A few short diagnostic charms later and she concluded the examination, and instructed Hermione to get dressed. Confused, Hermione asked, "can't you fix it, Madame Pomfrey?" She shook her head sadly and turned to peer around the curtain at Dumbledore and McGonagall.

"Could you join me over here, Professors?" She asked. They stepped around the curtain, and Dumbledore slowly took a chair beside the bed. Pomfrey addressed them rather than Hermione when she asked, "what happened to cause this?" Tears welled up in Hermione's eyes momentarily as she looked from Dumbledore to McGonagall, and she opened her mouth to speak, but found herself at a loss. She tried to recall when, if ever, there had been an injury that Madam Pomfrey couldn't heal.

"She can't remember." Dumbledore locked eyes with Pomfrey, and understanding dawned on her features. He was well aware of the potency of her diagnostic charms, and of the abundance of disorders and magical energies they could detect. He learned long ago that attempting to hide anything from Pomfrey's discerning wand was a futile effort, at best. So it discomfited him slightly to see such a great degree of concern and worry in the face of the mediwitch as she examined Hermione.

Speaking as if Hermione was not even present, Pomfrey began to detail her injuries to whomever was listening. "A fairly strong _Obliviate_ is separating her from her memories, and unfortunately, it is specified to be lifted only by the caster. The magic used to cut her torso is in conflict with the magic cast to seal it, and I'm afraid that unless one or both of those sources are lifted, there is a limit to what I can do from this point." She apologetically looked at Hermione for the first time since beginning her report. She turned to Dumbledore with a look of finality in her eyes.

"The only solution I can offer is to remove the second magical energy and the effects it produced, and allow her to heal naturally. This, of course, will be a painful and arduous process, but it's our only option, apart from leaving it partially open, as it stands for the moment. I'm sorry." She directed this last at Hermione, and resigned to her fate, the child nodded.

"I'll do it," was her only reply. She startled the others with her quickness to agree with the mediwitch.

"That's settled then," the Headmaster concluded. "I assume it will take many stitches, but before you begin the removal of the charm, we need to handle the issue of her memory loss. Is there any way to reverse it?" He questioned, paused briefly to scratch his beard, then continued. "Perhaps if we could discover the origin of the wound through her latent memories, we could counter it, and save her from living with a permanent reminder," he finished hopefully. She turned from unpacking a recently conjured muggle first-aid kit to address him.

"I'm not certain, but there may be some obscure spell or potion that could –"

"Are you familiar with the _Airomem _draught, Miss Granger?" drawled an all-too-recognizable baritone from the opposite side of the curtain. Snape stepped in view and came to an abrupt stop directly in front of Hermione, a customary lecturing look plastered on his face as he loomed over her. She thought for a moment, but shook her head and responded with a watery, "no, sir." His mouth twisted sharply into a smirk before he understood that it would not do to intimidate her in such an emotional state. In his mind, she had regressed to her first-year self, the embodiment of timidity and nervousness. He took a small step backwards to adjust for the teenage hysterics he felt were imminent.

In subdued lecture mode, he continued with the explanation. "The _Airomem _draught is instrumental in the recovery of latent or suppressed memories, which, in your case, is particularly appropriate. It cannot break _Obliviate, _but it can retrieve memories buried beneath the curse, deep in the subconscious mind. It will leave minor damage to your subconscious as the memories escape, but the good news is that you won't be aware of any change. Are you up to this, Miss Granger? It can be a harrowing experience for one not accustomed to it." Dumbledore looked reproachfully up at Snape, but said nothing and waited for Hermione to answer.

"I'll do it," she repeated. Her mind feebly cooperated with her, kept her from dozing even in her exhaustion as she gazed at her professors in turn, hoping that they had her best interests at heart. In Snape's case, she hoped that he at least held respect for her as his student and had enough concern to brew the draught for her. But she refused to expect much from him, she didn't wish to be disappointed at his traditional indifference. _Some people never change, _she mused silently.

"I'll return shortly; coincidentally I have just enough in stock in my private stores to aid you. Are you sure you wish to proceed with this, Hermione?" She whipped her head up to face him, shocked by his use of her given name. She nodded, once, and he swiftly departed, turning on his heel and mindfully closing the door behind him. Pomfrey ushered the remaining professors to the waiting area at the other end of the ward while she painstakingly began her work. Hermione gasped in pain as her wound stretched open and bled profusely. Pomfrey stitched her up as fast as possible without sacrificing accuracy, which was slow enough to be excruciating for Hermione. Fifteen minutes later, Snape returned and a small "clunk" announced the arrival of the potion on the bedside table on the other side of the curtain, and not-so-steady footsteps followed his trail to the bed adjacent where they instantly quieted.

"See me about that leg before you leave, Severus, it sounds serious," Pomfrey called to him through the curtain as she finished the last stitch and knotted the remainder of the line. "There, all done, dearie." She handed Hermione a hospital gown and disappeared, only to return moment's later with a measured dose of _Airomem _in one hand and a glass of water in the other. Pomfrey waited patiently for Hermione to finish dressing, and gave one last warning before Hermione took the potion. "The effects are nearly instantaneous from what I've seen, so I suggest that you lie down first." She complied, and Madam Pomfrey tucked her in as she drank the first, and she barely had the chance to catch the vial and the glass from hitting the bed as Hermione lost consciousness. Furtive whispers could be heard from the next bed, and were silenced by the swift approach of Pomfrey's firm and even footsteps.

"When will Draco be released, Poppy?" Snape questioned. For the first time since Snape could remember, Draco had genuinely incurred an injury, but was not complaining about it. Or exaggerating its severity to epic proportions. Something had changed in Draco, but Snape wasn't sure _what _was different about him. It would seem that he had withdrawn into himself. But he would have all the time in the world with Draco to better understand his recent actions, and the motives behind them. So he filed the thought away in his long-term memory, in a box labeled "Puzzles", for future perusal. Madame Pomfrey was still moving her lips, and in his inattention, he had failed to grasp a single word by the time she concluded.

"Pardon?" he asked, with a tone that made it appear as if he had heard all but the last sentence. It worked; she wasn't irritated at having to repeat herself, in fact, she even spoke louder as a result. _As if it was her fault that _I _wasn't listening. _He smiled inwardly.

"I said, that it should take a few days for the swelling and the burns to recede. He should be capable of resuming normal activities by the start of term," she finished. "Now, Severus, let us see to that leg of yours, hmm?" He stood and took a few steps towards her, out of Draco's earshot.

"I am able to remedy it, rest assured that it is not my injury that has brought me here. Rather, there is a student in need of your attention waiting just outside this room." He paused while she registered his words, and after a beat continued in a lower voice, "if Draco is to be indisposed indefinitely, I have no more time to waste being idle. It would seem that another batch of _Airomem_ would not be amiss for your next patient, and I very well cannot brew it from a prone position. We're in for a long night, Poppy, I do hope you are prepared for it." He bent over Draco and whispered something unintelligible, then stalked off stiffly towards the exit. He had eluded her care for the last time, she firmly decided.

She met the student at the double doors that granted entry to the Wing, gestured him to be seated, and queried, "what brings you here, dearie?"

"I don't remember."

* * *

Harry sat across from Tonks at the kitchen table, in the chair nearest to the fireplace, awaiting Dumbledore's imminent arrival. Before him sat his packed trunk and Hedwig's cage, his trunk just barely closed against the entirety of Harry's worldly possessions. They sat in silence, only broken periodically for Tonks to make the odd comment about the weather (it's so misty, lately, don't you agree, Harry?) or for her to inquire about his well-being. Both of which he ignored, giving a one-word response and promptly returning his attention to the fire. _Why would I care about fog when I've been holed up here all summer? _And the other, well, he didn't much fancy dwelling on Sirius for any longer than the time he was forced to spend reliving his godfather's death in his nightmares. In any case, it was obvious that she was suffering as well, and he did not want her further troubled on his account. The most apparent display of her distress was harder for her to hide than her emotions. Every minute or so, her features would shift involuntarily and suddenly; she was caught in an unbreakable loop of identities as a direct byproduct of her grief. One feature in particular was consistent. Her eyes were sunken and gaunt, wrinkled around the edges from worry. He suspected that she had not slept nor eaten in days, and that figure wasn't far from the truth. He heard a door shut in the distance, and bolted upright from his seat. He advanced to the door, but before he could reach it, Dumbledore stepped through.

"Have you gathered your things?" he asked. Harry nodded. He went to grab the handle of his trunk, but was forestalled by Dumbledore. "Now, it wouldn't do to have extra baggage, so I'll send these along with you, if you don't mind, my dear," he continued, addressing Tonks this time. She bent over to shrink his trunk and Hedwig's cage, still empty, and waited to be dismissed. "That will do. When you return to the castle, just send for Dobby, he can take them up to Harry's dormitory from there." She nodded to acknowledge that she understood, and made to leave by floo. Just before she tossed in the powder, Dumbledore added with concern, "after you've delivered Harry's belongings, see to it that you rest up, will you, Nymphadora?" She vanished in a puff of smoke without answering.

He then turned to face Harry again. "Follow me," he said, and led the way out of the kitchen to the front door. Harry was curious as to why they would be traveling in the open, as opposed to floo or portkey travel, and Dumbledore seemed to read his thoughts. "Side-Along Apparition," he stated simply. "I'll have to explain later, but for now hold tight to my arm, and don't leave this step." Dumbledore spun on the spot, and with a small pop, the two Disapparated into the night.

Harry felt squeezed as he held tightly onto Dumbledore's arm, as if all the air had been pushed from his lungs. He couldn't tell which end was up, and had it not been for Dumbledore at his side, he would've surely fallen ill at the way they seemed to spin endlessly in the dark void between destinations. He couldn't breathe, _What kind of hero am I, _he mused, _defeated by Apparition alone. _No sooner than it began, it was over (though it seemed like an eternity to Harry), and he found himself unceremoniously dumped on damp ground near the gates to Hogwarts. As he righted himself, Dumbledore wasted no time in gaining them entrance with a complex wand movement and a whispered word. He guided Harry forth with a steadying hand and the gates sealed themselves behind the two wizards, and the chains snaked back to their original positions and then lay still once more. They hastily advanced on the castle, Harry taking four steps for every one of Dumbledore's. It wasn't until they stopped short on the third floor that Harry could gather enough breath to pose a question.

"Aren't we going to your office, Professor?" Harry asked. Dumbledore turned and acknowledged Harry for the first time since entering the castle and frowned.

"It is best to not speak here, the walls most literally have ears, and eyes; however, I can say with confidence that you and I are overdue for a chat with Madame Pomfrey." Harry studied his feet, feeling almost chastised at his tone. Lately, it seemed as if every conversation was conspiratorially geared towards his mental health. He guessed that they would want to assess his level of grief, perhaps encourage him to speak to someone instead of bottling up his feelings as he was wont to do. He then made the decision to resolutely say nothing if they spoke a word about the loss of his godfather, save for 'I'm fine, really, don't worry about it'. He dragged his feet all the way down the corridor to the Hospital Wing.

Dumbledore pushed open the double doors and Harry hesitantly stepped forward. All thoughts of his own meeting with Pomfrey were pushed from his mind when his eyes rested on the closest bed to the entrance. A familiar face, mostly obscured by wild brown hair, lie sleeping there.

"Hermione, but -- " he trailed off, gazing to Dumbledore for the answer to the unasked question. He took a chair by her side, dumbfounded. "Professor, what... how..." again he tried yet failed to complete the question. Dumbledore understood his meaning, regardless of his less-than-eloquent wording of it. He closed the curtain around the three of them and explained her condition, and how crucial it was for her to regain what she had lost of her memories. Also, he added a subtle hint that she may appreciate Harry to be emotionally supportive of her in the time that followed. Dumbledore rose to leave, giving Harry permission to roam the castle as he saw fit, within reason, while school was not yet in session.

"As it is the summer still, there are no passwords to the dormitories, so I invite you to make yourself at home, wherever that may be for you. As such, I highly recommend you spend the next few days in the dungeons, the humidity there is most comforting this time of year." He smiled, his trademark twinkle ablaze in his eyes, and made to depart. Before he could reach the curtain, an unseen buzzing resounded, from the area of Dumbledore's outer robes (a shade of palest teal this evening) and he plunged a hand into the pocket and retrieved a rather plain-looking mirror. Harry instantly recognized it and turned away; he had recently rid himself of the shards remaining from the mirror Sirius had given him to keep them connected to each other. This mirror glowed briefly blue before fading, replaced by the bust of one Remus Lupin. He ran a hand through his graying hair, and sighed before speaking.

"Are you alone, Albus?" Lupin asked wearily. He looked around Dumbledore as best as he could from his vantage point within the mirror, and satisfied with what he had observed, continued in a tired voice, "it's awful, Albus, I hardly would've believed it if I had not seen it for myself." Dumbledore sat across from Harry in a chair he deftly conjured with a snap of his wrist, and the easy smile of before vanished from his face. Harry's attention was piqued; he had an uneasy feeling that no matter where he went, there would always be room for more bad news. And, he would hold himself accountable until he saw to it that Voldemort was killed, that much was certain. So his morbid curiosity allowed Lupin's words to hold him captive for a time. He looked to Dumbledore, who was still focused on the mirror, and he listened.

"One moment, please," Dumbledore said. He held the mirror to his robes, momentarily blocking Lupin's view, and gestured Harry to remain silent with a finger raised to his lips. "Do continue, Remus." He moved the mirror to its original position and waited.

"The house is in ashes, Albus, nothing could be salvaged. Obliviators were already making their circuit of the area when we arrived. I don't know what to tell you, we couldn't gather much intelligence from the Obliviators, and the parents..." he left the sentence unfinished, unable to find words that could quite explain them.

Dumbledore sighed. "Is it as we imagined, then?" he questioned with a resigned look. Harry felt he was completely in the dark; he hated more than anything to feel so uninformed and helpless.

"Worse," Lupin responded, "they're at St. Mungo's. We've not received word from Smethywyck yet, we sent him to investigate and requested that he report any changes, if there are any. For now the outcome looks bleak," he finished.

"What has become of them?" Dumbledore asked. He gazed over at the prone figure of Hermione, then back to the mirror.

"The Grangers have suffered the same fate as Frank and Alice, I'm afraid, and it was delivered by the same hand." It seemed as if Dumbledore wanted to be angry, but a sadness overwhelmed that feeling. A deep sadness, the likes of which Harry had never witnessed, not even within himself. A sadness borne of knowing the ending, being able to change it, but deciding to allow it to occur as it was destined to. Harry could empathize without actually experiencing it. He mentally fused the puzzle together, but still he felt as if he was missing a few pieces.

"Is there anything else, Remus?" He stood and vanished his conjured chair, preparing once again to leave.

"I'm sorry I have no greater news to report, old friend," Lupin lamented. "I'll be off, then," he announced. "I'll alert you if there are any improvements." Dumbledore nodded and ended the mirror's connection to Lupin with a tap of his wand to the glass, and pocketed the small-framed object.

As he reached the curtain, he turned and looked over his half-moon spectacles at Harry. In a tone that brooked no argument, he said, "Speak to no one of what you've heard tonight, Harry; once I have more details, I promise you she will be the first to know." He had his objections about keeping a secret from Hermione, and he hated the idea of providing for Dumbledore to withhold yet more information from him or his friends. But in light of the circumstance, Harry would prefer Dumbledore to be the bearer of bad news. "One more thing, Harry," he continued, "there is a meeting in my office tomorrow that I believe you will want to attend. Distancing you from the truth is not a mistake I shall make again in this lifetime." With that, they said their 'good nights', and Dumbledore departed. Somewhere in the ward, a cough reached Harry's ears. Harry was yawning before he even recognized his exhaustion. He rose from his seat, squeezed Hermione's hand, and silently prayed for her memories to remain lost.

"Let's hope the potion fails," he muttered as he let go of her hand and fled the Wing. In the bed adjacent to Hermione's, Draco stirred, unsettled at what he had overheard. Draco found himself agreeing with Harry. _And I'll take that thought to the grave,_ _and with it the last shreds of my sanity, _he mentally berated himself. He shifted into a more comfortable position on his bed, though not by much, and soon afterwards he, too, fell asleep. And Hermione dreamed.

* * *

**A/N: This chapter became so monumentally huge, I had to split it into two parts. Look forward to getting the second half updated at the conclusion of my spring break vacation. Thanks to the handful of readers that have inspired me to continue with this. Minor edits have been made to Chapter One, but nothing to change the overall plot. Read & Review, please!**


	4. For Your Own Good

**Sans Serpens**

**Chapter Three – For Your Own Good**

o

**A/N: FFnet would not give me the space I require between paragraphs, so forgive the little 'o' I've used as a placeholder in the middle of them. Thank you.**

o

The hours passed in a disorienting blur for Hermione. A deluge of images flowed in and out of her consciousness, often too swiftly for her to make proper sense of them. It was maddening, really, and after the first frenetic hour ended, with no sign of slowing pace, she grew restless of it. Sluggishly her mind reentered the reality that was the Hospital Wing, and she welcomed the silence and utter stillness of the ward, only punctuated briefly by rustling and snoring from the bed adjacent. She rolled her eyes, resigning herself to being unavoidably awake, and tossed back her sheets. For a moment she just sat at the edge of the bed, confused by the potion's odd effects. _I've succeeded in acquiring a headache in place of my memories, just brilliant. _She slipped off the bed and advanced toward the infirmary's lavatory, but in her haste she knocked over an unused stack of bedpans. She hardly cared if she woke anyone, but out of habit she peered behind her to the only other occupied bed, which remained unchanged, it's occupant facing away from her. Hermione went onward, and immediately upon her entrance, small orbs of light brightened up the room. She was instantly assaulted with her own eyes squinting back at her from the room's full-length mirror. For some time she just stood there, reflecting on her predicament and examining what was visible of her scar above the hospital gown.

o

A door unlocked within Hermione's earshot, and right away the panic began. Her vision started to darken, she felt like she could not breathe, and her heart beat in sync with her racing thoughts. Hermione felt nauseated by the sudden onslaught of her latent memories, brazenly forcing themselves back into her tangible awareness without regards to the discomfort they caused. A sudden feeling of terror engulfed her as the first memory pushed its way to the forefront of her mind. She faintly registered a pair of arms preventing her from falling and easing her to the floor. But she could see nothing, hear nothing outside of her little bedroom hundreds of miles away, in London.

* * *

_She left her bathroom, to determine who had decided to invade her bedroom, and was met halfway by a imposing intruder, who could only be a witch, judging by the flowing robes barely concealing an hourglass figure and her outstretched wand. She could not discern the face, however, it was completely obscured-- _**"Granger, are you alright?"** _The witch spoke without introduction, as if she were starting in the middle of a conversation already in progress. "Miss Granger, it is imperative that you gather your belongings and come with me to safety," the voice echoed in her memory. "Who are you?" Hermione demanded, "that is irrelevant," the strange witch countered, "all that matters is that I get you away from here before they arrive and remove you. It would be for your own good to trust me, Hermione, and follow me to Hogwarts as soon as we can arrange-- _**"Can you hear me? Please? Can you--"** _"Why should I trust you? And who are 'they' and what do they want with me?" She could not help her curiosity getting the better of her. The witch huffed impatiently, and continued in a slightly lower voice as she cautiously edged closer to Hermione's window. "We haven't the time for questions, but I'll bet you have a firm hold on your instincts, haven't you, girl?" With a sweep of her wand she packed Hermione's trunk with just about all that would fit into it from each end of the room; Hermione looked affronted, but quickly settled into bewilderment as her own wand sailed across the room from the witch's hands to her own. "Now would I have given you that, had I the intent to harm you?" _**"Hermione, this really isn't funny, please, if you can hear me--"**

o

_Hermione had difficulties concentrating on both voices at once, and even more difficulty making an impulsive decision based solely on instinct instead of logic. The witch wasted no time in banishing the trunk while Hermione thought out the problem. _Should I leave with this stranger, possibly risking life and limb, or stay here to face a less predictable danger, most definitely risking life and limb? **"Please, Hermione, wake up, you are at Hogwarts, not--" **_The arms that held her steady had vanished then, and taken her resolve with them._

o

_She felt cold shivers and soreness along her spine, and still she struggled to decide. Until the decision was made for her. A loud bang resonated from the floor below, followed by raucous laughter and more sounds that could only mean that her time for remaining idle had passed. The witch advanced on her, wand raised, and Hermione flinched. At the last moment, the witch dropped her guard, confused at such a reaction. "Come, Hermione, we must Apparate, and you have no choice but to trust me, lest you splinch yourself," the witch whispered. But her near-silent voice did nothing to deter the new intruders from making a steady circuit up the stairs to Hermione's unlocked room. Before either witch could react, the door was flung open and a curse was released. A curse not restricted by its lack of initial aim. It hunted its intended target ruthlessly, and just as it struck Hermione full force, the strange witch had sent another one of equal magnitude down the corridor to the same effect. Hermione could easily hear someone falling down the flight of stairs, and yet another continuing upwards. The witch swiftly encircled Hermione's waist with an arm and spun on the spot without warning. Hermione shut her eyes tight at the constricted feeling that such hasty Apparition had given her, and moments later, the two witches alighted in a cold, unfamiliar place._

o

_Hermione caught her breath leaning on one of the two brick walls that comprised the alleyway. She chanced a look around, but there was nothing distinctive about it, aside from the creaking signpost some distance down the alley, announcing the presence of a pie shop. Upon first glance, it appeared an abandoned venture. A few feet in the other direction was her trunk, and beyond that the strange witch had started pacing and muttering to herself rapidly in a language Hermione could not understand. "Who are you?" Hermione repeated, only this time it was more out of curiosity than anything else. The witch paused, hesitated as if deciding something, and beckoned Hermione forward. Instinctively, Hermione felt that she could trust this stranger; an odd revelation considering what had happened that evening. Instead of answering Hermione's question, the witch asked her own: "Do you trust me, Hermione?" She merely nodded, wondering if her thoughts were truly_ that _transparent. The witch continued, "you shall need to be healed then, that is going to make one awful scar," she gestured towards the wound on Hermione's chest, and judging by the blood, she knew that the longer she waited, the weaker the young witch would become from blood loss. Hermione looked down in shock; it was funny how the adrenaline had prevented her from feeling any pain, up until that moment when it became real. "Episkey," she incanted on the wound, tracing its path with her wand. Hermione felt the wound stretch to close itself, but when she glanced down a second time, she was slightly disappointed. Magic had never failed her before, and she was subconsciously letting the witch's inadequacy irritate her. The witch must have sensed this shift in demeanor, however subtle, and she allowed for a small, apologetic smile to cross her face. "Forgive me," she twirled her wand nervously between her fingers, "I thought it would be more, er, beneficial than that." She set off at moderate speed, grabbed Hermione's trunk and remarked that Hermione should give her a hand. They exited the alleyway together, and rested the trunk on a wooden bench. She raised her wand hand, and to Hermione's amazement, the Knight Bus appeared, with the grace of a rabid Hippogriff._

o

"_One more thing, Hermione," she began, "for your own good, I urge you to listen." Before Hermione could register any movement from the shrouded witch, her wand was surreptitiously placed at Hermione's temple. "Obliviate," she cast, and for that small moment in her memory, Hermione was blissfully removed from all thought and emotion._

o

"_Take her to Hogwarts, if you please, sir, and you'll receive double if you make it your highest priority." He responded simply, "will do, ma'am," and she tossed a small leather purse to him. Hermione took a seat on the bus, and vaguely recalled someone on the street beside her, but when she turned to the window to confirm it, the street was empty._

* * *

"Hermione, can you hear me?" _That voice again, _Hermione noticed, _so gentle, so reassuring, so.._

o

"Malfoy?!" she opened her eyes to find the source of her momentary comfort, only to wish instead that she had gouged them out. He quickly retracted the bandaged hand that previously held her own, and gaped at her as if she had just struck him. He shrank back, and his unusually unmanageable hair blocked any further reactions from being so apparent.

o

"Your innate grasp of the obvious astounds me," he retorted, with less malice than he felt she deserved. Though she had brutally poisoned his ego, he had readied a bezoar for just such an occasion. Snape smirked from the doorway he was hovering over. Suddenly, she was outnumbered, and she realized that it was prudent to concede the battle for the advancement of the ongoing war between their intellects. "Come, now, Granger, you very well can't lie on the floor all morning." He offered an arm in a rare spot of chivalry, and she accepted it and quickly detached from him as soon as she could stand of her own volition.

o

She returned in a daze to her bed, still haunted by the echo of the witch's voice from her recovered memories. Snape proffered her a goblet, and she swallowed the concoction without question or protest. He searchingly raised an eyebrow in her direction.

o

"I figure, that if I can't trust you won't poison me after six years of opportunities wasted, then I must be mad," she answered. She could have sworn she heard him chuckle. _Now I know that I'm mad, _she thought, _poison or not_. He rested a breakfast tray beside her, which was by no means sparse; it held abundant portions of anything she could desire to eat. There were strips of bacon, crisped to her liking, a serving of eggs and several slices of buttered toast, some assorted fruit, and even _orange _juice, of all things. She didn't think it existed in the Wizarding World. _Clearly, the house elves have outdone __themselves, _she thought. "I don't mean to be rude, Professor Snape, but--"

o

"Too frequently rudeness is an inevitability, ah, but do excuse me, you were saying?" He asked, sarcasm only barely veiled in false curiosity. She was put off, and forced to rephrase, with a bit more tact this time.

o

"This is really too much, I mean, the efforts the elves have taken are appreciated, but--" Again, Snape chose to interrupt. He raised a hand to halt the elf rights propaganda she was certain to spew, stood and retrieved his own tray before speaking.

o

"Miss Granger," he said, exasperated, "had you researched correctly, you would understand that there are no elves present over the summer holidays. Only four have remained, and it would be folly to impinge on their vacation privileges, lest one has a death wish. Furthermore, if you doubt my culinary talents, I suggest you tuck in and leave your ideologies where they are better suited, in your head." He proceeded to follow his own advice, and began to apply some jam of unknown flavor to a piece of toast. Draco did his best to imitate his mentor's example, but only succeeded in his impaired dexterity to spill jam on his bedsheets.

o

"You win," Draco lamented to his toast, "I surrender." Snape smirked, Hermione was torn between giggling and dropping her jaw in amazement. But what she ended up with was a highly undignified and ill-timed snort. Draco glared in her general direction, a glare that said were-I-capable-of-using-my-wand-I-would-hex-you, or something incredibly similar. Chastised, she returned to her meal, but after some minutes passed she decided it was better revenge to make a great showing of how delicious it was, knowing he could not manage his own breakfast. Snape quickly tired of her shamelessness, and of Draco's covert nasty looks, and took action.

o

"For Merlin's sake, Draco, forget your manners; I daresay we can change the bandages after breakfast, and Miss Granger stop tormenting him." The rest of breakfast passed in relative silence, since each was quite starved and uninterested in distracting themselves from the food.

o

"Is there anything you wish to discuss about what you have seen, now, Miss Granger, or would you prefer to speak once you have had time to contemplate it?" She thought it interesting that she was not given the option to completely avoid talking altogether. But she took the third option despite him.

o

"I would prefer not to speak on it now, Professor," she exerted. _And not ever, if I had anything to do with it, _she added to herself. It was enough to relive it a second time. He nodded, and held a hand out for her tray. In the other, he passed her what she recognized as a Calming Draught, and she questioned him about it.

o

"Regaining one's memories is seldom uncomplicated and often traumatic," he explained, and offered her the potion once more. She reluctantly grabbed it, though she internally debated if it was a necessity. Once she settled back into her pillows she could tell that there was more than a mere Calming Draught at work. _He must've added a sleeping aid, _she thought, _some people never change. _Hermione could feel a deep sense of peace come over her mind, and push all other somber thoughts aside. She could no longer keep her eyes open; the last image before she faded into oblivion, was the flush of embarrassment evident on Draco's face as his bandages were replaced. _He should really keep his hair like that, it would look a lot less prissy if—_she fell asleep, mid-thought.

* * *

Harry argued with Madame Pomfrey for quite nearly half an hour. Armed with nothing more than his Gryffindor persistence (which other houses mistake for stubbornness), he managed to come to a compromise with her; he would be permitted to remove Hermione from the Wing on the condition that he maintain her current state of health. That is, to prevent her from overexerting herself and see to it that she, in her grief, does not neglect her own needs, namely food and rest. After ten minutes of detailed instructions as to what he should do, in the event that the Hospital Wing could not be easily reached, he was ready to get Hermione and himself far away from there. However, an additional ten would pass before he was allowed to leave her office and collect Hermione.

o

She was sitting up in bed when he entered, a book rested unopened in her lap, and instantly he could measure the extent of her distress. He sat in the same chair he had in the darkened hours of that morning. "Afternoon, Hermione. How are you feeling?" he asked with concern. She looked away from the wall she had been studying, and surveyed him closely for a moment.

o

"Tired," came the short response. She yawned and stretched, as far as the stitches would let her, and leaned back into her pillows. "What brings you here?" she continued. She noticed that his clothes looked slept in, but from his eyes she could tell he had not rested, at least not adequately so. And yet he was fussing over her health, denying himself the same concern. She was grateful to have such a selfless friend, and she deeply hoped that he would not change too much with the hefty burden of his role in the war to contend with.

o

Oddly, he waited until she had brought her thoughts back to the present, then he stood and answered her. "I'm worried about you, Hermione, which is why I can't let you sit up here and sulk. So I have been given permission to take you away, to somewhere that is far less depressing. Are you interested?" he asked. She perked up at once, clearly, even a day in the Wing had become unbearable for her, but he would not discover why until many months hence. He passed over a set of folded robes and she gestured for him to close the curtain around her bed.

o

"I'll meet you in the hall in ten minutes, Harry," she enthused. Precisely ten minutes passed before she joined him outside the double doors of the Hospital Wing; Hermione was nothing, if not precise. It comforted him slightly that she still had her predictable habits, even when her mood was anything but. He led the way, and she fell into step beside him. "Where are we headed, Harry? This is the route to the dungeons, isn't it?" She could not help being reminded of Snape and his strange kindness, no she could not call it that, more like civility, towards her. It was especially odd for him to behave thus in the presence of Draco, she thought. _When did I stop thinking of him as Malfoy? _She asked herself as they walked by the familiar Potions classroom, only to her disappointment, she could not remember.

o

"Because it _is _the dungeons," he confirmed, effectively rousing her from her derailed train of thought. Still more perplexing, Harry halted their journey directly facing a blank stone wall. He whispered something in Parseltongue and the stone gave way to an arch, not unlike the entrance to Diagon Alley, only more Gothic in style and height. He entered without hesitation, and she followed suit. His trunk and Hedwig's cage were positioned at the foot of a rather cozy-looking armchair. _Cozy for a snake, _she added, _I can imagine Draco sitting there while presiding over his High Court of baboons. No, _she hastily amended, _Malfoy, not _Draco. She had just enough time to admire the intricate carvings of twin black-scaled dragons upon the mantelpiece, which thankfully did not move as she studied them, but before she could further explore the Common Room, Harry grabbed her by the hand. Trailing his trunk and cage with his other hand, together they exited the more frequently used passage into the dormitory. Stealing a glance behind her, she committed to memory the portrait of a dark-haired man decked in emerald dress robes, crooning to a baby viper that had wrapped itself around his hand.

o

They pressed onward, and reached their own tower after several flights of stairs, faster than they would have if the term was in progress and yet slow enough to give Hermione an easier time of things. The stairs had lost their incessant desire to change and subvert students from their intended destinations, at least while school was not in session.

o

"Make yourself comfortable, and I'll get us some lunch," he said. She seated herself in the softest chair by the fireplace, and waited. Hedwig perched herself on the window ledge and pecked on the window to be let in, Harry diverted his step from the hearth and opened it for her. Hedwig nipped impatiently to be relieved of her scroll, the instant it was untied she took flight and alighted on Hermione's lap. She nudged her head under Hermione's hand, and her owl eyes widened. Hermione stroked Hedwig gently, unused to such attention from a creature that typically kept to herself, when not delivering post. "Oh!" Harry remembered, "did you ever get that letter I sent you, Hermione? I seem to only have a letter from Ron."

o

She scanned her memory, but did not recall getting any message from Harry, not in several weeks. She told him that she had not received any owls since earlier that summer, when Ron wrote her to ask her to visit him at the Burrow. Hermione declined politely, on the spot inventing an exotic location that she and her parents were "vacationing" in, when in truth they hadn't traveled as a family for two summers. But Harry didn't need to hear _all _of that truth. Just the part that directly answered his question.

o

"What did it say, Harry?" He sat in the chair opposite her, and passed her a sandwich from the plate Dobby had arranged for them. He proceeded to tell her what he saw the previous evening, the entire vision of what he remembered with special emphasis on the orb. When he concluded, he watched her expression fade from mild interest into one of dire contemplation. He knew that she would either burst into an epiphany after a few long minutes, or in the worst case, she would spend the next few days buried neck-deep in a steadily growing swarm of books. And then she would emerge, with a solution, or at least a potential one.

o

"Perhaps they reference it in a history book somewhere?" he hoped aloud. She mentally compiled a list of which volumes were most likely to mention an orb, and unfortunately for the both of them, she came up with a less-than-useful handful. It was against all odds that there would be anything other than a small passage devoted to anything of the sort, as History was mainly centered on events as Wizards perceived them and not on the objects that influenced their outcome. Hermione had read all of their History of Magic texts cover to cover, and ended up with a relative understanding of all they had learned (or all that _she _had learned). Not a single mention of an orb, on occasion a crystal ball or two, but those were far too large to fit the description he had given her. She huffed in irritation; the library wouldn't open until the start of term, and she craved that unattainable knowledge so. It put her on edge, not to be able to distract herself with research as she had imagined she would when he first detailed the peculiar and dangerous orb-of-unknown-origin. _Though not unknown for long, _Hermione promised herself, _not if I have any say in the matter. And I very well do._

o

She inquired about Harry's scar. He was rubbing it, but out of habit instead of the pain. "I feel just fine," he informed her, "I'll feel more like myself when I wake, and I should think the same would apply to you." He said this by way of dismissal, and he took the stairs to his room two at a time. He flashed a last minute smile over his shoulder as he reached the top step, and then he disappeared from her line of sight. She smiled back to herself, and privately agreed with him. But she did not lose her resolve, she had been presented with a puzzle she fully intended to piece together.

o

She was of the opinion that all things lost to history or memory deserved to be found. _And see what benefits that gave me, letting curiosity reign over common sense. _She then realized that this monumental event, along with her summer vacation, was beginning to turn her into a bitter young witch. She reveled in the liberty of it. For once, she lacked the inclination to care about others and what they thought of her. Hermione was finally free to do as she pleased, and Merlin save anyone that should attempt to take that away from her. It would most certainly take more than Merlin's blessing to resurrect the soul that begged for Hermione's trust the night before, particularly if Hermione was forced into another situation that robbed her of her ability to determine what was in her best interests. _For your own good, my arse, _grumbled Hermione into her pillow. She rested but could not sleep; she feared for her parents and for her own life. She feared for the future. And most of all, she feared that her life would only worsen in the weeks to come, and that she would be alone in her suffering.

* * *

**A/N: More to come soon, Promise! And while you wait ever-so-patiently for the next installment, drop me a review and tell me what you like about it, or what you hate about it. Or give me advice. Whatever, so long as you review. It is greatly appreciated, and I will repay fellow authors in kind. Thanks again for reading, chapter four, "Shattered Glass & Broken Heart", coming soon to a computer screen near you.**


	5. Shattered Glass and Broken Heart

**Sans Serpens**

**Chapter Four – Shattered Glass and Broken Heart**

**o  
**

_**Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation. **_

-Kahlil Gibran

**Early Evening – August 27th, 1996**

The rain fell in drenching torrents on one of the last evenings in August, prematurely casting grim shadows across the windows of Hogwarts castle. The only person that could have noticed this, however, was preoccupied with keeping her balance on the muddy slope to the castle's gates. Her eyes trained on her feet, she walked steadily onward, with slow, consistent strides. She slowed at the familiar sight of the Headmaster. He displaced the wards long enough for her to enter, and replaced them just as quickly. Security would have to be strict this year.

"Nice weather we're having this evening, isn't it, Headmaster?" she asked, with more than a hint of sarcasm.

"I'm pleased to see that you have not lost your ability to find humor in the mundane," Dumbledore replied.

The two marched their way up to the stone steps at the entrance to the castle, the Headmaster doubling his usual pace to match that of his newest professor. He was still taken aback that she had accepted the position on such short notice. But he was grateful nonetheless.

Before they could reach the landing on the uppermost step, the double doors were flung open. On the other side stood Minerva McGonagall in a rare state of dishevelment.

"Albus, the Minister has been anticipating your arrival for the past hour. Where _have_ you been?" she questioned impatiently.

* * *

"I was attending to other matters, as you are well aware," he returned. They exchanged a look, and crossed the threshold, Dumbledore signaling for the other witch to follow behind them.

McGonagall did not deviate in her direction as Dumbledore swerved right, presumably heading for his office. Tiaret was faced with a difficult decision. She did not know who to follow. On an impulse, she chose to follow McGonagall. Either choice would have been preferable to getting lost within a castle she had not entered in at least a decade.

After a time, they halted in front of a wide portrait, somewhere within the North Tower. McGonagall motioned the young witch forward, placed her own wand on the wall to the right of the portrait and positioned Tiaret's hand just under it. A soft glow formed around Tiaret's hand, which was not unusual. It was the heat of it that scared her. She flinched backward, staring between her hand and the wall, and watched as the glowing imprint faded into the stone. The portrait cracked open.

"You can set a password, if you wish,," McGonagall started, "but being keyed into the wards has its advantages."

"Like what?" They proceeded into the sitting room, which had a 'lived in' look about it. A l long sofa with overstuffed cushions lined one wall, beneath a set of portraits that appeared to contain each of the room's previous occupants. They appraised Tiaret mutely as she stretched herself out on the sofa. McGonagall took a seat in an armchair by the hearth, and within seconds ignited the few logs that rested there.

"For one, the wards are not nearly as susceptible to trickery. Students, for example, would have a difficult time attempting to duplicate your hand print and magical signature, or attempting to disable the wards. It is simply beyond their expertise." McGonagall located some floo powder and called down to the kitchens. She continued, "passwords are easily duplicated, one would only need to be hidden in the right place at the right time to overhear them." A house elf popped in, and placed two large trays on the low table in the center of the room.

"Anything else Minerva requires?" the elf questioned brightly. For an elf, she was stylishly dressed, a green pillowcase cut to appear like a tunic, cinched at the waist with a length of black ribbon. She stood still to await further instructions, with far less awkwardness than usual for her kind.

"Sage," McGonagall addressed the elf, "this is your new charge, Professor Nayeli Tiaret. She is new to teaching this year, and I trust you will make her feel most welcome here." The elf nodded and bounced over to Tiaret, offering a gracious bow to her before speaking.

"Sage is glad to be of service, Professor, and anything you is needing Sage will get you." She bowed again and Disapparated. McGonagall briefly explained how the elf could be summoned if needed. She then conjured a bottle of wine, and poured a glass each for herself and Tiaret.

"Now, on to other pressing matters." McGonagall swirled the burgundy liquid in her glass, unsure of where she should begin. "First thing's first, a toast in celebration of your new position. Let us hope, for the sake of the children, that you last longer than your predecessors," she gestured to the overhanging portraits with her glass.

"To more than one term," Tiaret toasted. McGonagall echoed her, and they each took a sip of wine. McGonagall took a seat on the solitary sofa, and began to help herself to one of the trays of food. Tiaret responded in kind.

"On a more serious note, I would like to ask you a few questions. Albus has repeatedly assured me that you pose no danger to the students, but by virtue of your past misdeeds I have a mind to think otherwise." She took a moment to look into Tiaret's eyes, to measure her reaction to open suspicion. "How long have you been a Death Eater, Miss Tiaret?" The witch in question twirled her wand nervously in her hands, and took a deep breath to calm herself.

"Thirteen years," she responded. McGonagall's face was a study of surprise.

"But Albus tells me you are only twenty-six. Is he mistaken?" she questioned Tiaret, trying not to allow shock to overtake her features. If what the young witch claimed was true, actually _was _true, it would be appalling, to say the least.

"No, he is not. I just turned, actually, less than a month ago. And might I add, that I am as reformed as the Headmaster has told you; I am no threat to the students."

"I suppose he wouldn't have hired you if there was the slightest chance that you would backslide into old behaviors." McGonagall reasoned. Tiaret simply nodded in agreement.

"What made your allegiance to You-Know-Who waver?" McGonagall pressed on, albeit in a more subdued, and less outright oppositional tone.

"Besides thirteen years of servitude, you mean? You desire specifics?" she stalled for time, not wanting to give McGonagall more of her sordid past than was absolutely necessary. And speaking of Him in polite company was in poor taste, or so Tiaret thought, and frankly she was feeling nauseated just _thinking _about it.

"When did you decide that opposing Him would be to your benefit?" McGonagall rephrased.

"When I graduated from Hogwarts my perceptions of the Dark Lord changed. He was growing stronger by that time, he was unable to maintain a physical form, but he was still capable of possessing others and feeding off of their strength." She paused, and drained her glass of wine. "But I understood then that his weakness was not due to the absence of his physical body but a result of the absence of logic in his ideals. If that makes any sense to you," she concluded.

"It makes perfect sense." She changed the subject. "And yet it took an additional nine years for you to seek refuge from that? Help me to understand, if you will."

"It was not until recently that the opportunity to escape presented itself. I received word that a few of your students were targets – the initial plans dictated that the students were to be taken captive, and the families in residence at the time of the attack were to be terminated. I forewarned Professor Dumbledore of these attacks, and promised that I would do all that I could to prevent them." Her eyes took on a distinct glassiness, but it was gone in moments, replaced by a neutral look so perfect that it seemed practiced.

"Did you not believe that the Or-- that the Aurors he called would be sufficient to rescue the endangered students and their families? Or, perhaps, did you believe that Albus would grant you amnesty for this one act of random kindness?" she asked in disbelief.

"Quite the contrary," Tiaret countered, "I expected to be thrown into Azkaban, no questions asked, but Professor, you must understand that the nature of targeted attacks is not predictable enough to be subverted easily. The time that the attack is to occur is not revealed until one is _en route_. The Headmaster could know that it was forthcoming, but precisely when the children would be taken was impossible for him to know in time for it to make any difference. I elected to risk my position within their ranks and my life to save as many students from harm as possible. For that, he could overlook my past and provide this sanctuary from it." McGonagall looked satisfied by her answer, and a true smile was on her face for the first time that evening in the presence of Tiaret.

"For a Slytherin, you show remarkable courage." Tiaret felt affronted by the comparison to Gryffindor, but chose not to show it. McGonagall drained her second glass of wine. "Is there anything else you will be needing this evening, Miss Tiaret, or may I take my leave?" She stood and vanished both empty glasses with a flourish, then replaced her wand within an inside pocket and waited for dismissal.

"If it is not an inconvenience, could I be directed to a Potions lab?

McGonagall murmured something under her breath, and proceeded to act as if she hadn't said anything. Muttered opinions really tended to irk Tiaret, to no end. She asked McGonagall what she said, to which she said simply, "nothing", and feigned ignorance. "If that is all, then yes, you can." _I only said that you and Severus would make quite a pair, _she repeated to herself.

"I know the perfect place."

* * *

Snape felt a disturbance in the familiar corridor as he stalked its length. No others were in the hall, but he felt someone nearby, the way you feel someone's scrutiny upon you without ever meeting their eyes. He advanced on one room in particular; the door was ajar and scant fumes escaped through it. They smelled faintly of cinnamon. He directed a gust of wind through his wand at the door. It opened wider. He had expected the occupant of Lab Seven to react, but in this he was disappointed. He moved to stand by the door frame. Snape could hear a cauldron bubbling inside, and above it, the sound of someone singing. A distinctly _female _sound. She was singing in a language Snape recognized but did not understand. _She had better have a damned good excuse for invading my territory, or Merlin help her, _he pledged. The song ended, leaving only the sound of the cauldron to betray her presence. He regained his composure and entered the lab, wand raised.

* * *

Snape assessed the intruder briefly, and lowered his wand a little. But not too much. Her concentration was such that it took her a full minute to realize that she had company. She looked his way, for all of a second, then set her potion to simmer with a muttered directive and a wave of her wand. That one second of eye contact, however, sparked him to put his wand away. He surmised that she was no threat, not to him anyway, so he chose not to act on the impulse to throw her bodily from _his _lab and _his _private store of ingredients that lay sheltered by its walls.

"Professor Snape, I presume?" she asked, offering her hand. He inclined his head a fraction in acknowledgment of her presumption, and received it. He shook only once, but once was enough for him to perceive a distinct tremor in her left hand.

"And you are?" Snape returned, not even trying to keep the contempt from his voice. She was an intruder to him, after all. It was not lost on her that he saw her as unwelcome there, but she had no intention of leaving until her potion was complete.

"Professor Tiaret," she introduced. He waited for Tiaret to elaborate, but instead she reverted her attention to the simmering cauldron. Snape did not recognize her by name nor by face, but something about the witch struck him as familiar. He spent a few minutes watching her, under the guise of watching her potion, trying desperately to remember.

Her stirring technique was slightly impaired by her shaking hands. He noticed. Her eyes were a plain black color, unremarkable, in Snape's opinion. Her hair was pinned in an uptight bun, with not a strand out of place, though not unusual in definition or color. Tiaret's figure was entirely hidden by a high-necked robe of deepest burgundy, emphasizing her short stature and small, rounded shoulders. All things considered by Snape, she was remarkable only in the fact that she was utterly common and indistinct. And yet, somewhere in the back of his mind lay the notion that he _should _remember her. But he did not know _why._

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" Snape ventured. "A _Master Potioneers _Convention, perhaps?" He noted no flicker of recognition on her face, she simply continued to shakily stir.

"As you may have already deduced, I would not have needed to introduce myself had we met before." She ceased stirring for the benefit of adding another ingredient, a finely granulated powder, of some sort. "And I would hardly consider myself a Master in anything, much less in Potions." She laughed at her own expense. He let the matter drop, for the moment, anyway, and let his curiosity lend his attention to another aspect of the scene before him.

"May I ask what you are brewing in my lab this evening?" he interrogated, keeping a level, almost civil tone.

"I would rather you didn't," Tiaret answered tersely, "I'm not using your ingredients, if that is what you are worried about." She Vanished some excess supplies from the other side of the cauldron, before he could see what they were. Snape found it suspicious that she was suddenly on edge, so he decided to take a different tack.

"What is it," he walked around to hover at her shoulder, "that _you_ will be teaching here this term?" He peered into her cauldron, noted the sickly green color, and moved to a less invasive distance off to her right. "_Muggle _Studies?" He twisted the words on his tongue, feigning contempt. Snape knew of no pureblood Tiarets, nor did he care, he solely wanted to get under her skin. Metaphorically, of course.

"If you must know..." she trailed off, indignant. Clearly she registered his tone, and cleared her throat, at a temporary loss of words, she was. She took a breath to calm herself, which he noted with some satisfaction. "I will be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts to N.E.W.T. Level this term," she announced proudly, despite her prior irritation. Snape was now thoroughly _unsatisfied_. As that approach bore no fruit, he chose to move forward with what he knew best: potions and their ingredients.

He spent a few seconds in silent observation of what was left on the low table that supported her work. A small bottle of Dittany was peeking out from behind the cauldron, empty and lying on its side. A few discarded valerian roots near her left hand, all meticulously chopped to quarter-inch lengths, but sadly there were more remaining than were necessary for any potion, medicinal or otherwise. _Such a waste, _Snape thought, _I wonder if she knows that they cannot be reused once cut._ Some powdered moonstone lay in a stone mortar, leftover from the previous stage of the potion. Snape thought he detected the scent of murtlap essence, as well, but he could not confirm it visually. All fairly innocuous ingredients, as he understood it; they were routinely used in many potions prior to O.W.L. Level, and yet something about the setup unnerved him. It seemed almost _too _innocent for her to be that secretive about her intent. The salamander blood, however, was a dead giveaway as to her purpose. He smirked.

He knew precisely what she was brewing, and he was fully determined to make good use of the information.

"You see," he began nonchalantly, "the irony to that potion is that it can only be made correctly while one is not in need of it. Such is the downfall of any Anti-Cruciatus elixir or potion." Her jaw clenched in anger at being discovered, however, she made no retort. He refocused on the potion, imbibing her fury like an antidote. Snape had won this battle. She went back to her work stiffly, as if trying not to allow her emotion to effect its outcome. As in any high-risk potion, all movement was critical and needed to be precise to the centimeter.

"You really must go," she said, "I need utmost concentration." She cut a small gash into her palm, cupping her hand to prevent it from bleeding overmuch. A few drops tentatively bubbled to the surface, at which point she began adding her blood to the potion. Wincing she urged one drop after another into the frothing cauldron. One, two, three... with effort she turned her head to see Snape, six, seven... the potion swirled, and Snape's eyes went wide as dinner plates, eight, nine...

"Get out!"

"Get down!"

The tenth drop was added. Many things occurred simultaneously: the potion hissed menacingly, like a steaming kettle upon a stove, Snape dived to push Tiaret away from her cauldron, the knife flew across the room like a dart and impaled itself in the opposite wall, and both Professors landed in a heap on the stone floor, inches away from the door yet yards away from the inevitable explosion.

The cauldron did not disappoint.

* * *

Snape made short work of cleaning the lab, with a combination of Vanishing spells and Scouring Charms where applicable, and would have additionally scrubbed out the cauldron by hand had it not already melted. He kept casting glances at the floor where Tiaret still sat, utterly still and silent, either unwilling or incapable of helping him. She was holding her side and her eyes were closed. Snape assumed it was a result of his roughness, but did not ultimately care. Had he not pushed her away from harm, she would be in worse pain and have more to show for it than mere contusions. As far as he was concerned, his lab suffered more damage than she had from being unceremoniously pushed to the stone. He supposed he owed her an apology, but the urge subsided, replaced by a mild irritation that she resolutely stayed put as he made an effort to put _his _lab back into some semblance of order. The day Snape apologized to anyone, whether or not it was warranted, was the day he gave Miss Granger points for a perfect potion. That is to say, not at all if he had any say in the matter. Which he very well did in this case.

Tiaret slowly rose to her feet, and took a seat upon one of the stools that lined the wall. Snape stared at her unblinkingly. He affected his best lecture stance, arms folded across his chest, and thought of what best to say in the situation to take back the reigns of control. It had escaped him, he figured, the moment he decided against hexing first and asking questions later.

"As it stands, you have two options. Either I escort you to the Hospital Wing and let Madam Pomfrey have a look at your ribs there, which will surely take all night, or..." he took in her look of dismay, and tried to resist smirking at that dour expression he knew all too well. He was at that time convinced that it was impossible for anyone to be comfortable with the prospect of spending a night in the Wing. Apparently she was of the same opinion.

"Or," he continued, "you could explain to me what you did to deserve the Cruciatus, and I could... aid in your recovery, as best I can." He empathized with her, in his own odd way. Never mind that Snape's empathy could also be interpreted as blackmail, on occasion.

"How can I be sure you won't run off and gossip to your friends of my misfortune?" she asked, rather immaturely for a woman of her age.

"I make no promises." He made to inspect his fingernails, as if he had not a care in the world. Only Snape could make indifference into an art form. And he was currently working on what would be his masterpiece of the evening. "If it is any consolation, I have no friends, nor would I deign to _gossip_, as you so eloquently put it, even if I had." He gave what would have been a confidential piece of information, to anyone with emotions that is, with as much inflection as if he were simply remarking on the weather.

She mulled it over. On the one hand, Pomfrey could help her manage the pain, if she was lucky. But Tiaret would have to forfeit pride and privacy for that to occur. On the other, Snape knew what potion she attempted, and was more likely to have a fitting equivalent than Pomfrey, if she remembered anything at all of his reputation, and he was far less likely to fret over her condition after treating her. Quite improbable, if not impossible. She guessed that he would give her something for the obvious pain, from being shoved to the floor, and then probably tell her to get out of his sight, despite that he knew of her underlying problem. He seemed like the type that would be on the receiving end of Cruciatus, and by her estimation, more than a healthy number of times. Nonetheless, he had a reputation of being cruel and unrelenting, and not altogether accommodating when it came to the suffering of others. Tiaret also assumed that he would humiliate her, and make the pain that much harder to bear by withholding the antidote until she gave some deep confession.

Be that as it may, Tiaret was still a Slytherin at heart. She could play mind games, too.

"Well, I'm not above discussing it, over a glass of wine, perhaps... as long as you answer me in kind." She got up, smoothed out her robe and closed the distance between them, meeting his eyes for the second time that evening. Tiaret saw expectation in his; he saw nothing but his reflection in hers.

"What does one ever do to deserve it?"

Tiaret earned a small amount of respect from him then, but she was not made aware of this change of his perceptions until much time had passed.

* * *

**  
Nearing Midnight – August 27th, 1996**

They marched in tandem down the dungeon corridors, both sets of robes billowing in their wake, and came to a halt in front of a nondescript wooden door, flanked on either side by unlit sconces.

"The infamous private storeroom," Tiaret declared. He shot up a questioning eyebrow, to which she merely shrugged. It was not as if its location were a guarded secret, but to speak of it with such reverence was indecent if you were neither the Potions Master, nor a recipient of his potions. That only made him suspicious, that perhaps she might have had a hand in one of the many thefts over the decade or so of his teaching career.

"Just how are you acquainted with it? I don't suppose you were a Slytherin when you attended here, or else I would have remembered you sooner." He took this opportunity to remove the wards as well as try to probe further into her past. Snape could not shake the feeling that he knew her, and would not rest until he was absolutely sure that he didn't.

"Why, Professor Snape, I am deeply offended that you cannot recognize a fellow Snake when you see one, but that is no excuse to insult my intelligence, as well." She adopted a wounded look for effect, that seemed completely at odds with the rest of her features. "I fear that, by now, this place is destined to end up like all other secrets within Hogwarts – that is to say, public knowledge amidst the most undeserving of it." Tiaret measured his response, and was impressed by herself for rendering him speechless. At least for the time being.

He busied himself plucking one potion after another from the many shelves, some that appeared more suspect than others, only to dismiss a majority of them back to their original positions once more with a shake of his head or a few words, whispered for his ears only. As to their purposes, Tiaret would never know, nor did she want to ask. He returned with three bottles of differing sizes, which he stowed in an inside pocket as he made to replace his wards.

"Follow me." He swept down the hall at a slower pace, opened another door, and gestured her to precede him into his office and be seated. He made no pretense of uncorking a bottle of Rosmerta's Finest oak-matured mead, then in no time at all, he poured them both a generous glass and took his seat behind the desk. For a long moment, neither of them said a word. It could have been because they had both survived another potion gone wrong, and were now in shock in its aftermath. Or, it could have been because every footfall from here forward was a potential step into uncharted territory for the both of them. Either way, there was no decent icebreaker for such a situation and neither one of the professors seemed willing to break the silence. Snape was the first to speak.

"_What does one ever do to deserve it?" _Snape repeated, more for his own benefit than hers. He sipped from his glass and frowned into it pensively. She studied him curiously, wondering if her assumption about him earlier held any basis in fact. Snape seemed to snap out of a trance at that instant, as if upon the brink of a sudden realization, and he set down his glass, retrieving the bottles he had found for her. He lined them up within her reach at the opposite edge of his desk, and prepared to extol the purposes and virtues of each.

"This," he began, pointing at the emerald bottle that had the appearance of being squashed, "is Dreamless Sleep, which I am positive needs no explanation. Take one teaspoon," he pulled out a small vial, seemingly from midair, and measured her dosage, "right before bed, as you may know, its effects are instantaneous, so be prepared." He passed her the vial, and moved on to the second in the impromptu lineup.

"Here we have a basic salve for bruises that you may have incurred this evening, apply a thin coat each night until they clear up, then kindly return the remainder." She took this from the desk and waited for the final one to be explained.

He picked up the last container, a spherical glass bottle, violently turquoise in color, and swirled its contents as he addressed.

"This last," he paused to locate a goblet, and measure yet another dosage for Tiaret, "is the potion you would have succeeded to brew tonight had you not let your emotions overrule logic." He passed her the goblet, and she drank unashamedly, as if she was being given water from the Fountain of Youth or something similar. She did not even react to what he knew was one of the fouler tastes among drinkable potions.

"Thank you," she told him, and Snape returned the goblet to its rightful place and at length took to staring into his glass again in silence. Her gratitude was not misplaced; the potion effected her muscles within minutes, and she heaved a sigh of relief for being able to breathe again painlessly. Her other injuries could heal without potions, naturally, given the right time and environment, but those that the Cruciatus had inflicted needed this specific antidote. Tiaret would be incapable of functioning in the days ahead without something to bring back coordination and circulation to her weary limbs. And she could thank Snape forever for that one act of generosity on his part, whether he thought it sincere or not, and it still would not be enough to equal the gratitude she felt for the man at that moment in time. _If any other person were to examine my distress, I doubt that they would have been as equipped to handle it, _she reflected, _though I can't put my finger on _**why**_ that would be so.  
_

"Why can't I remember teaching you? It seems you are of the age to have graduated within the past ten years, and yet..." he fell silent again, trying to make sense of it in his own mind before continuing, "and yet I find myself at a loss. Care to enlighten me?"

"I cannot imagine why, but I can confirm that I was only a student of yours for three years. My memories of school have since blurred together, but I do recall you beating out old Professor Slughorn for Potions at the beginning of my third," she sipped the mead appreciatively, and felt almost nostalgic remembering the simpler time that was her stay at Hogwarts.

"Only three years? Why, with the talent you demonstrated earlier, did you not rise to N.E.W.T. Level?" he inquired in genuine curiosity. She set her glass down on the desk and straightened up in her chair.

"I dropped out prior to sixth year, and took correspondence courses from then on. My parents... felt it would be irresponsible to send me back, they thought it was unsafe for me to remain here separated from them. So I left." Throughout her explanation, she kept her eyes downcast, and presently the silence shifted from peaceable, to being discomfiting. He sensed that something was still missing from her story, but decided not to press the point.

Snape had no questions left in mind to ask her, and was still far from remembering. There was one thing left to do if he wanted to leave a good impression, if he wanted to be able to ask her more questions as he thought of them, so he did it. He put a box around his curiosity and filed it away, and left her to her thoughts in peace. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose, as was his habit when he was exhausted or irritated, and by no stretch of the imagination he could safely concede that she must have been as tired as he was.

"I can accompany you to your quarters, if you like; the North Tower, correct?" She nodded in agreement. "Unless you believe you can find it on your own without difficulty?" The two left the office, and the walk to the Tower was over sooner than either one expected it to be.

Tiaret, for one, downed the vial of Dreamless Sleep and collapsed on the bed, which she had barely located when the potion hit her full force. She was instantly asleep and lost in a dull black dreamless void, a welcome respite from recurring nightmares that plagued her all too often to not be real. Snape could not hope for that peace without the same potion, yet he denied himself that luxury and instead sat down with a glass of wine and think on the enigma that was Tiaret. He forced himself to sift through his packaged memories, worn and yellowed with age, with fine attention to detail. He would not let the memory elude him any longer.

He stood to pace at his mantelpiece. Snape always did his best thinking while in motion. He thought back to all the women he had bedded, a short list, and then to all those he had dated, an even shorter list, and she took no place on either, much to his disappointment. If he taught her in her third year, there was no possibility of them ever being classmates, and yet therein lay his problem. He taught her, but he did not _remember _teaching her. She may not have been a model pupil, but that was no excuse in his reasoning; if anything, the colossal failures in Potions were made all the more memorable by their lack of skill. Snape knew of only one female Death Eater, and she was emphatically _not_ Bellatrix.

So what remained were two possibilities that he could fathom would fit into her identity, and his unsettling feeling of connection to her. Either she was a former victim of the Death Eaters at a Revel, or a former acquaintance, picked up by another Death Eater for use as decoration at said Revel. He could not believe those options either, they were unfit to describe her, he was certain that the mental block was more than coincidental, so simple answers were not the solution to his dilemma.

It was then he remembered. The images flooded his consciousness without warning and he was frozen in his pacing by their assault of his senses. He barely heard it when his wine glass fell and shattered at his feet, and he could not suppress nor lessen the intensity of his memories as they resurfaced. He felt everything as if it were happening all over again, only it was worse this time that he was powerless to protect himself from it. And he already knew how the story ended, and it was gravely lacking a 'happily ever after'.

There would be no sleep for him that night.

* * *

**A/N: Chapter title credits are as follows -- Out of Sight, Out of Mind - **Old proverb**; In Search of Memory - **Nymphaea (fictionalley[dot]org)**; Shattered Glass and Broken Heart - **RENT_Serenity (fictionalley)**.**


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